


post-war year one

by ichidou



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichidou/pseuds/ichidou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, thanks to Project Freelancer and its supersoldiers, one-man-armies with their own AI and equipment. They're the greatest heroes the galaxy has ever known, and it's thanks to them that peace has finally come.</p><p>This is their aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	post-war year one

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally written in April 2012, before Season 10 aired, and then left to sit for a year and a half. I've edited it with details from Season 10 in mind, but given that this is a canon divergence they weren't hugely important.

Carolina always holds her head high, but there’s not the slightest waver in her posture now. Every line of her body is sharp and precise. She’s gotten used to the sound of boots moving down the long hallways here, but it still gives her pause to look out the windows and see sky instead of stars.

She misses it, sometimes. She feels like she shouldn’t, like she should put it all behind her -- the war’s over, they won, and the peace she’d dreamed of has spread across the galaxy, but she still wakes from dreams of gunfire and smoke, of screams and cries of pain--

_I survived. She didn’t. It’s over._

“They’re ready for you, ma’am.”

Carolina gives a sharp jerk of her head to the aide and steps forward into the room, eyes adjusting to the glowing screens making up the walls, each projecting a hologram of a far-off official.

The eyes fall on her, and her hand snaps to her brow in a crisp salute. “Sir. Reporting as ordered.”

“At ease.” The woman at the head of the table smiles, gesturing towards an empty seat near the other end. “Have a seat, General.”

“Yes, sir.” Carolina smooths down her uniform, the dress blues she’s still not used to wearing and the single star she can’t believe is pinned to it, and slips into the seat offered, nodding to each of the officers that catch her eye. The meeting comes to order a few moments later, and Carolina loses herself in troop reassignments and civilian displacements, the same as she’s been doing for weeks.

She doesn’t let her thoughts wander, but her hand curls over the back of her neck, thumbing over the chip implanted in her head.

At least the AI is quiet.

===

It’s over, but it doesn’t feel like it.

It is, though, no matter what he still dreams about. They all still have those dreams, he thinks. They’d pushed back the aliens to the point that negotiating was their only option, and no matter how strained it was, enough had been lost on both sides that it’s over, for good.

It’s over, and it’s all because of Project Freelancer. Project Freelancer, and the soldiers that made it up, each with their own AI and equipment, perfectly in sync. They were one-man armies, taking down every objective put in their path, and they’d worked together seamlessly, the AI interfacing with their minds and armor to the point that none had ever faltered for a moment.

It’s the greatest success humanity has ever had, it’s brought peace where so many had thought would never come again, and yet it hadn’t made losing her any easier.

He has everything he’s ever wanted, officially sanctioned labs for research and a budget bigger than anything he’d ever dreamed of in Freelancer, but his bed is still wide and cold and empty, and his life even more so.

Tex is gone, but Allison hasn’t left his nightmares. Church hopes she never does.

===

He’s richer than he ever imagined, but fame and fortune had never mattered much to York. Sure, he can’t say he doesn’t like walking into a bar and having girls _recognize_ him, but he likes the backwater planets just as much, even now, where he’s able to use his charms and only get a couple of second looks from people who think they might have seen him before, on one of the newsfeeds.

He laughs off the questions and winks his bad eye, and it’s easy to lose himself in it: the comfortable trappings of normal life. He’d had the offers to stay with the UNSC, of course, to keep climbing the ladder, but when his tour was up, he knew it wasn’t for him.

Not like it was for her.

York had understood, of course, why it mattered to Carolina. Why she wanted to keep fighting, to make sure that the peace they’d brought to humanity _stayed_ that way, but she’d never quite figured out why he was so willing to leave it all behind, and he’s not sure she even could. They had a duty, sure, but they’d _done it_ , and it’s over. Leave the rebuilding for someone else.

She hadn’t liked that.

York still thinks about her, sometimes, when he’s sitting alone at breakfast in his empty kitchen, remembering the way she felt in his arms when he’d come up behind her and put his chin on her shoulder, but he knows things would never have worked out. They’d both cared about different things, and compromising would have made them hate each other, in the end.

He misses Delta, so much that it hurts, the ache in the back of his mind never quite leaving no matter how much aspirin he takes. If he could have stayed for anything, it would have been for him, just so he wouldn’t have to give the little green AI up to the UNSC -- but it was Delta’s choice, in the end.

_This is the logical course of action, Agent York. I would not have you sacrifice the freedom you have wanted for so long on my account. I am still able to aid the UNSC without you._

_Besides_ , he had added, a little flicker of data that York knew was warmth pushing through their shared mind, _Brigadier General Carolina has promised to take care of me._

York had accepted it, in the end. There was no arguing with Delta’s logic.

So he wanders, and one day a one night stand turns into something more, and he feels _normal_ again, taking her out on dates and finding himself a place to settle down. She moves in, and things just _work_ , the way he’d always wanted them to. She’s smart and funny and beautiful, short brown hair and warm green eyes, and York tells himself he loves her.

It’s only afterwards, after they’ve given their vows and found a little house with a white picket fence just for the cliché, that York realizes he doesn’t.

He’d loved the _idea_ of her, sure, of settling down and having the normal life he’d fought and killed and watched the people he cared about die for, but he’d just been going through the motions, in the end. And it’s not long before he barely feels anything at all when he holds her, when he curls up next to her and waits for the nightmares to come.

It figures, he thinks, that she’s not surprised, no matter how much it hurts. It’s better for both of them this way, better to cut it off before it’s too late, and when she does the unthinkable and tells him to keep in touch so they can stay friends, York hates himself a little more for giving up on her at all.

And for once in his life -- the one he’d spent never wavering from his dreams, from what he was fighting for, what he dreamt of one day -- he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

===

The world will always need soldiers. It’s a fact of life, no matter what pretty pictures the UNSC likes to paint. They might not need every able-bodied man and woman to join up anymore, but there will always be threats, both inside and out. They know that now.

Maine doesn’t really care.

He’s never cared about most of it. He left _caring_ for those who gave a damn, those for whom it mattered that one man was on one side and one was on another. All he’s ever needed is a direction and someone to hurt. Everything else comes secondary.

There are whispers about him, on the rare occasions he makes it out from the depths of the UNSC, of a senseless human weapon, a killing machine in human form, but Maine doesn’t much care about that, either. If the UNSC wants to use him to train their next wave, to give them an example to follow, he’ll do it.

It keeps Sigma happy, after all. The AI comes up with almost all of their ideas, now, guiding Maine to be better, faster, _stronger_ , and it shows, no matter what the UNSC throws at him.

He misses the killing blow, though. Training is never as much fun.

===

North visits South’s grave every week.

He takes flowers, most times, and the florist on the corner has started preparing the arrangement before he even calls. It’s the same thing, every time, purple roses and green carnations, and North smiles and tips her extra when he comes by to pick them up.

She’s never asked who they’re for, but no one really has to. The story had been told time and time again, after all, in every report that had gone out about him in the last days of the war. How he and South had been holed up for a week in a bunker, waiting for backup. How they’d listened to the bombs going off overhead and the enemy forces moving past and no way to fight back, out of ammo save for the single bullet in his pistol. How the wound in her side had gotten infected, without even the most basic of supplies to care for it. How as the days dragged on she’d gotten worse and worse and begged him to end it and put her out of her misery.

How, in the end, he had.

It’s a comfort, knowing that her grave isn’t empty. It’s a soldiers’ graveyard, countless unmarked headstones marking the dead, but hers is the nicest one he could afford, and after the war money was no object. North sets the flowers down before the grave and kneels, reaching out to trace over the words carved in the stone -- her name, her callsign, the years she’d lived, and the worlds he’d chosen as her epitaph.

_Faithful Sister. Hero._

In therapy, the counselors had suggested he turn to faith for guidance, but they’d never been raised with it, and North hadn’t gotten much out of it when he’d tried. He’s left with his thoughts, with the memories, and there’s nothing he can do but cope.

He’s getting used to that, at least.

“Hey, sis,” North says, finally, his voice soft even in the silence. “Man. Still feels weird, you know? Talking to you like this.”

He closes his eyes and draws his knee up, leaning against it. “Things are going all right. Jenkins finally got discharged, can you believe it? I know, I wasn’t sure it would happen, but he’s doing good. Better than I’ve ever seen him. Phyllis, too. She’s gonna be driving circles around me in another week or two in that wheelchair of hers. I don’t know what she was thinking putting six wheels on it, but that’s Phyllis for you.”

He’d never really thought too much about what he’d do after the war, when he’d never quite let himself believe there _would_ be an after, in those last days, but he can’t imagine doing anything else, now. All it had taken was one look around the veteran affairs center, when he’d gotten out of therapy himself, at the soldiers still suffering from what they’d endured in the war, between broken bodies and shattered minds. They all needed help, and this time, he had the means to do it.

“...Hey, South?”

North looks down at the flowers, listening to the wind rustle through the trees, and sighs. Talking to her grave won’t bring her back, and won’t make her hear it, no matter what his counselors had said about the cathartic effects. No matter how long he sits here, it won’t change what’s already passed.

_I’m sorry._

“Never mind,” North says, and pulls himself up. “I’ll tell you next time.”

He knows he has to, one day. The counselors had made that clear. One day, he’ll have to accept what happened, and not the official version. One day, he’ll have to face the memory of South screaming in pain. Of her begging him for mercy, for the gift of the one bullet between them. Of watching her get worse and worse, almost delirious as the infection spread.

Of the way he’d said no, every single time. How he’d made her wait with promises that backup was coming, that they’d be saved, she just had to hold on a little bit longer. How he’d told her he was there for her, that she’d be fine, and every other lie he could think of just to keep her awake and stable.

How, when he’d drifted into sleep, she’d pried the gun from his hands and pressed it to her head.

How he’d been rescued not six hours later, alone.

How he hadn’t had the heart to correct them, when they assumed he’d done it.

North glances back, at the flowers propped up against the grave, a single splash of color in an empty field, and turns away.

Next time. He’ll tell her next time.

Same as every week.

_I’m sorry I couldn’t kill you._

===

He knows it’ll happen eventually.

Wyoming’s no fool. Quite the opposite, in fact, thank _you_. He wouldn’t have made it as far as he had if he was, after all. Mistakes are things recruits make, and it’s been a long time since he was wet behind the ears.

He knows better, now.

The alert comes up on his HUD -- three men at seven o’clock, emerging from the building, but Wyoming doesn’t stop for a moment, pushing himself and his armor to the limit. He’s not as young as he once was, perhaps, but the armor makes up for what he’s not, and he’s long learned how to compensate for it.

“He went this way!”

He can hear them, below, but Wyoming doesn’t turn to look. If they catch him -- and they won’t, of course, but _if_ they do -- they won’t find what they’re looking for. The job’s done, and anything they try to hold him on won’t last for long. He has a place in this new world of theirs, even if the UNSC doesn’t like it, and he’s not without friends.

It’s just that he keeps some closer than others.

 _They are gaining on us_ , Gamma says, and Wyoming mutters an _oh bloody hell_ before swinging down into the next apartment building. He won’t fire on them unless he has to -- bodies are evidence, and he hasn’t made it this far by leaving ways for people to find him. He simply needs to lose them, regroup, and get the blazes out of here.

It hadn’t been hard to find work, even after he’d escaped the UNSC. A good operative could be very useful to certain parties, after all, but one with an AI was even more so. He has enough to get by, and really, this suits him more than Freelancer ever did.

Even so, Wyoming still wonders sometimes if he made the right choice. He’s seen the newsfeeds, seen the fame the others had gotten, and it could have been his, but not the way he wanted it to be. Not if he wanted to keep Gamma. It’s something he’s never been able to put a name on -- he’s not one to subscribe to thoughts of _trust_ and _friendship_ , not after he’d seen what the war had done, but he knows he’s got a damn better shot at things with Gamma than without.

His motion tracker is clear, but Wyoming waits a few minutes more, just to make sure, before moving away. He’ll have to lie low, but he’s safe enough, for now. At least until the next target.

===

“Agent Washington, with all due respect, are you out of your mind?”

“That’s… not the reaction I was expecting.”

“Then you are even more foolish than you would have me believe.”

“Chairman Hargrove--”

“ _Enough_.” The Chairman waves his hand for silence, and Wash has enough of the soldier left in him to obey. He grits his teeth. He _needs_ Hargrove to listen. The Oversight Subcommittee doesn’t have much power, in the grand scheme of things, but he’s the best Wash could get with what he has.

He hasn’t come this far to back down now.

“Chairman-- _sir_ ,” Wash tries again. “Everything I’ve told you-- I have proof. The Epsilon AI--” And his gaze flicks to the memory unit on the desk, seeming unnaturally still for all the havoc Wash remembers the fragment wreaking in his mind. “He has everything Director Church ever did to him. To us. There’s some corruption, but I can corroborate--”

“You will do no such thing.”

“But--”

“Tell me, Agent Washington,” Hargrove cuts him off. “Did you ever once think past your petty revenge to the consequences this information would have?”

“This isn’t about _revenge_ ,” Wash hisses. “It’s about doing what’s _right_. He _tortured_ the Alpha. He sent us out after CT when she found out what he was doing-- made us hunt her down and kill her--”

“Agent Connecticut was a traitor to the UNSC and dealt with appropriately. She chose to deal with the Insurrection rather than bring her findings to those who could use them.”

Wash stares at him, this little man in his twice-pressed suit he could crush between his fists if he reached out and squeezed, and feels cold fury run through his veins. “So she _deserved_ to die because she didn’t come to you? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not. Agent Washington, you must learn to see what is plainly before you. I simply said that if Agent Connecticut made different choices, she would still be alive.” The Chairman tips his head toward the memory unit. “As for your AI, I will see that it is put in the appropriate storage facility.”

“What--?” Wash has the sudden urge to grab for the memory unit, as if he could protect Epsilon anymore, but he stays put. “But I told you--”

“As for you, Agent Washington, I will see to it that you receive the best care the UNSC has to offer. It is a shame that your mental screenings did not show this level of instability when you were discharged.”

Wash had had plenty of time to think about how this conversation would go, in the long months he’d spent searching for Epsilon. How all he’d have to do was turn over the AI and give his testimony. He’d never considered this.

“You’re not going to do _anything?_ ” he demands. “You’re just-- you’re sweeping it under the rug! You can’t just pretend it never happened!”

“Project Freelancer saved humanity,” Hargrove says. He taps the viewscreen on his desk. “We were at _war_ , Agent Washington. A fight with an alien race for the very survival of our species. I feel I must remind you, that it is an undeniable, and may I say a _fundamental_ quality of man, that when faced with extinction, _every_ alternative is preferable.”

Guards enter the room behind him. Wash isn’t surprised when his arms are drawn behind his back. All he can do is stare.

“Perhaps one day you’ll understand that, Agent Washington.”

===

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”


End file.
